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Three weeks ago, I was driving the speed limit in a 55 mph zone. A guy in a battered red pickup approached a stop sign on a side street, rolled through it without slowing down, turned left on to my path and began cruising at 30 mph.

It was a completely rude and unsafe move. And there were no cars behind me, so he could've waited.

Angry Roy would've sped up, ridden his bumper, leaned on the horn and acted like an ass for a mile or two before speeding up — to whatever speed was necessary — to pass him.

Again, that was the “old me.” The “new me” slowed down to create a cushion between our cars.

And this is what the other driver did: He tilted his head to the left to put his face directly in front of his outside mirror. And he glared back at me, making eye contact, waiting to see how I was reacting.

This guy wanted trouble. But I just smirked and shook my head slightly. He stopped glaring after a few seconds and drove on.

Three years ago, right after my slow-speed epiphany, I was driving on New Braunfels' Main Plaza, which is a rotary being fed by four streets. As I hit the circle, a guy tried to squeeze in between me and the curb, i.e. creating a third lane. I sped up to get out of his way. He followed me for a mile. When I stopped at my destination, he pulled up, stopped, rolled down his window and lectured me for being an unsafe driver.

I'm not safe in parking lots, either.

At the parochial school, I was being chided by one drop-off line volunteer for driving too quickly and then hammered by someone else — 100 feet away — for not driving quickly enough after drop-off. The stress was killing me. Finally, I stopped going through the line. Instead, I parked on the other side of the school and walked my kids to the door.

Another time, I was closing in on a head-first parking space in a strip shopping center. I noticed a car coming from the left side. Driver and passenger were arguing, not paying attention. I stopped well in advance to let them pass. When they finally saw me, it startled them so much that the woman driver slammed the brakes and screamed. The male passenger cussed at me through his open window and threatened to hunt me down and kill me.

At Wurstfest two years ago, when a car in front me finally got tired of waiting and inched through a crosswalk, I gave the driver a thumbs-up. She saw it in her rear-view mirror and shot me the finger. When I started laughing, she did it again, this time with her arm outside of the driver's window.

When I pull out of the left lane on the freeway to let faster cars pass, half of the drivers shoot me the finger. One woman actually slowed down as she passed, made eye contact, closed one eye to improve her aim, and then lobbed a bird in my direction. She really wanted to hit me with that finger.

This is why I never considered myself a road rage driver. I never shot anyone the finger. I just wanted to get where I was going without suffering fools in the left lane.

But the people going off on me, it appears, are actually angry. And it can't be because of me, because I haven't done anything wrong other than accede to their wishes.

My wife's theory is that everyone has always shot me the finger, but I was driving too quickly and erratically to see it.

I don't know what to do. I can't put my finger on it, but that's OK. Everyone else is putting their finger on it for me.